


Ember Heart

by mercurialMalcontent



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 21:56:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3463457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercurialMalcontent/pseuds/mercurialMalcontent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian had initially found himself surprised at how beautiful Ferelden is in the autumn. Far colder than should be allowed, certainly, but beautiful, with honeyed sunlight streaming down through the red and gold canopy. One didn't get anything like it in Tevinter, which was always lush and green, and knew few seasons: hot, wet, or hot and wet.</p><p>He isn't finding it so beautiful now that he's in the middle of nowhere, in the dark, and trying to sleep on ground so cold and hard that it surely must be frozen. Autumn, he thinks grimly, is clearly an inferior southern invention and should be banished.</p><p>--</p><p>Flirting and magic tricks while sitting at a campfire.</p><p>Set between In Hushed Whispers and In Your Heart Shall Burn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ember Heart

Dorian had initially found himself surprised at how beautiful Ferelden is in the autumn. Far colder than should be allowed, certainly, but beautiful, with honeyed sunlight streaming down through the red and gold canopy. One didn't get anything like it in Tevinter, which was always lush and green, and knew few seasons: hot, wet, or hot and wet.

He isn't finding it so beautiful now that he's in the middle of nowhere, in the dark, and trying to sleep on ground so cold and hard that it surely must be frozen. Autumn, he thinks grimly, is clearly an inferior southern invention and should be banished.

It's only made worse by how he seems to be the only one having trouble. The air outside of his tent is filled with the raucous melody of snores from the huge Qunari mercenary and the improbably foul-mouthed elven girl, with the soft crunch of footsteps from the scout on guard duty and the faint crackle of the fire providing harmony.

Dorian listens for a while before he decides that sitting in front of the fire feels far preferable to lying in the cold, musty tent. He heaves a sigh and throws off his blankets - then hastily pulls them back. After a bit of wriggling he gets one of the scratchy things draped around him, then crawls awkwardly from the tent.

He looks up and goes still. Someone already sits at the fire, and judging from the narrow frame and ink-dark hair, it's the Herald himself. Dorian considers retreating back into his tent, but before he can move the elf notices him. "Can't sleep?"

Dorian straightens from his crouch in as dignified a manner as he can manage. "Ah, Master Lavellan! No, I cannot. It's so damnably cold I fear I'm going to freeze to the ground."

Lavellan snorts. "You have three furs and five blankets on your sleeping pallet and you're still cold?"

Dorian huffs and wraps the blanket more tightly around himself. "Tevinter has a much more civilized climate." 

"What, the magisters spell the weather into submission, too?" Lavellan chuckles at Dorian's expression. "Excuse me, magisters and _altuses_." He pats the ground beside him. "Come on, sit. You're not going to get any warmer standing over there."

He hesitates until Lavellan's lips quirk wryly. Sensing imminent teasing, Dorian flounces over and sits, then makes a show of arranging his blanket around him. The ground is only marginally warmer by the fire, but the heat rolling from the flames almost makes up for it. "I may yet freeze," he warns. "You'll have to have The Iron Bull chisel me from the ground." 

"I could have sworn you were a mage. Didn't I see you create a _wall of fire_ day before last?"

"Yes, you did. Strangely, self-immolation does not appeal to me."

"What? You can't make anything more controlled?" Lavellan leans closer as his teasing lilt drops to a murmur. "Surely Tevinter mages learn subtlety as well as flash?"

Dorian laughs. "Oh, I have all the subtlety you could possibly desire." He smirked. "All the same, I don't want even a small fire near my nether regions."

Lavellan arches his eyebrows. "No? Not even a little heat?" Dorian's breath catches. A smile flickers across Lavellan's lips and he drops his gaze. 

For a moment Dorian is tempted to make a very forward and very _foolish_ proposition. He allows himself to stare, and his good sense wavers further as he imagines running his finger along the edge of Lavellan's pointed ear, cupping his cheek, brushing his thumb across those sweetly curved full lips... Oh Maker, why did the _Herald of Andraste_ , of all people, have to be so damned attractive?

Dorian starts when something heavy is dropped into his lap. "Here."

He looks down. "... It's a rock."

"Very astute!" Dorian looks up at Lavellan, who's smirking in a way that suggests that it isn't Dorian's reaction to the rock that's put the expression on his face. "Touch it." Dorian warily pokes a hand out of the safety of the blanket to heft the rock. It's a river rock, smooth and flat, almost too hot to touch, but when Dorian looks at his fingers there is no soot on them. "Put one at your feet, one at either side of you, maybe one on your chest, and you'll fall asleep warm."

"Ingenious," Dorian says, turning the rock over in his hands. "Do you create fire around it, or...?"

"No, that's too difficult to control reliably." Lavellan produces another rock and sets it in his lap. "I channel the heat from a normal fire into the rock. It's one less thing to focus on and much easier to control."

"You channel the _heat_ , but somehow don't bring along the fire itself?"

"Yes, it's..." Lavellan gestures for a moment, then trails off with a grimace. "It's very simple, but I'm not very good at explaining it," he says with a sheepish smile. 

"And you're usually so good with that silver tongue of yours." It's Dorian's turn to smirk as Lavellan puts his hand over his face and his sheepish smile turns into an even more sheepish laugh. "But say - if it's that simple, I should be able to feel the flow of the magic if I focus through you."

Lavellan's brow furrowed thoughtfully, then he nodded. "Shall we try?"

"Let's."

Lavellan closes his eyes and reaches his right hand out toward the fire. Dorian closes his eyes as well, _sensing_ the fire as well as the man beside him, who feels bright with a pulse of magic. In his mind's eye he can see threads of magic reaching out, pulling, but--

"Did you get that?"

Dorian sighs. "Nothing." He opens his eyes. "I suspect the spell works at too subtle a level to be sensed ambiently."

"Then you'll probably need to be at closer range." Lavellan glances at the hand-span width between them.

Dorian resists the urge to fidget. "... Touching, then?"

Lavellan shifts the heated rock to his side with exaggerated care. "Seems likely that would work, if anything will." He pulls out a fresh rock and extends his right arm again. "Ready when you are."

Dorian scoots closer and, after a moment of hesitation, rises to his knees and moves close against Lavellan's back. He extends his arm and fits his hand against the elf's. It's smaller, more slender, but rough with scars and scrapes. 

"Focus," Lavellan says, his voice a bit rough.

He tries to. He tries to shut out everything - the feel of Lavellan's hair against his cheek, the rise and fall of Lavellan's shoulders with his breath, the slight tremble of Lavellan's arm, how Lavellan presses his hand back into Dorian's. He tries to feel only the magic, how Lavellan coaxes the heat away, caressing it like a lover as it flows away and into the stone...

"Shit!!"

Dorian twitches back as Lavellan flails and flings the stone away. It tumbles and lands with a dull thud. Dorian stares at it a moment, then shifts so he can see Lavellan's face. The elf stops blowing on his fingertips and gives Dorian a rueful look. "We overdid it a little."

Dorian reaches for the stone; his fingertips barely brush it before he jerks back and winces. "Just a little! Fortunately, I got the gist of it." Somehow, despite the immense distraction his teacher provided. It really was a simple thing. "... Do you need some elfroot?"

"No, I'm fine, but thank you." He rolls his eyes at Dorian's doubtful look and holds out his hand. "See?"

Lavellan's pretty, slender fingers are so callused and scarred Dorian is certain he wouldn't be able to spot anything less than a major burn. "I think you need a manicure." 

"Pff." Lavellan takes his hand back and gives Dorian a fresh rock. "Here, you can burn _yourself_ this time."

"Oh yes, something goes wrong with magic, blame the nearest Tevinter!" Dorian takes the rock in as dignified a manner as he can in the face of Lavellan's snickering. "Here goes nothing..."

It only takes a few minutes for Dorian to heat the stones Lavellan hands him. However, in that few minutes, the full extent of his weariness hits him and he can scarcely keep from yawning. "Forgive me--" No, there one goes, and he barely manages to hide it behind his hand. "--but I must return to my tent, lest I collapse where I am."

"None needed." Lavellan waves him away. "I wouldn't want you tripping over your own feet from weariness tomorrow."

"I would never." Dorian gathers up his stones and rises. "Many thanks for the useful little magic trick, Master Lavellan--"

"Embriel," the elf blurts. At Dorian's questioning look, he breathes a laugh and shakes his head. "Would you want to be called 'Master' by everyone? It makes me feel like an old man."

"Oh, maybe by the _right_ person..." Dorian grins as Embriel dips his head. Embriel - like embrium, like embers, a play of fiery warm color like in his bright, lovely eyes. "Embriel, then. Goodnight, Embriel."

Embriel smiles up at him. "Goodnight, Dorian."

It is only when Dorian is toasty warm and has nearly fallen asleep that he remembers that he didn't ask what was keeping Embriel awake. 

The smile Embriel greets him with the next morning - knowing but almost shy, the kind of smile you give to someone you share a secret with - makes it feel too awkward to ask.


End file.
